Friday, September 25, 2015

Lines for Farkhunda

Whence water lapped within
the hanging basket's parabolic earth,I went to Nizar Qabbani's
grave by quiet agency's worth.“It come to my atair!” he
trilled, to check I had not drifted off.I drifted off to get there,
but knew trough would cancel out a trough,Rousing me that I should
quaff undreaming. I was with him, and notOf a single absent-mindedness
too far, as ballast, forgotThe bench I was sitting at in
Crondall, some, that I stayed lucid.“Aphantasic in grief, I could
not see, the way my mother did,The face of my sister how it
was in life. I could only seeHer distraught before her
self-destruction. Come to my atair!” HeContinued: “Muslim women,
from Eritrea to the YemenUp to England, are attacked,
blamed, condescended to by Femen,Forced and enslaved. I could
only protest by sly sentiments, hid, And criticise Arab men,
though they could not be certain I did,But you must write candidly
of Farkhunda. Yes, I know that youFeel painted, that Sitter and
Subject are a quiet man, but throughQuietness, through your
Apparitionism, you have agency.No man may touch the coffin;
and Farkundha's mother cannot seeHer daughter's face as it was
before lapidation's wounds.” WaterLaps colic in the parabolic
earth. I am back, transporter,At the Plume of Feathers,
Crondall.